


put your curse in reverse

by QueenWithABeeThrone



Series: i wanna scream "I LOVE YOU" from the top of my lungs. [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Canon-Typical Horror, Multi, Role Reversal, Side Stanpat, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, nonsympathetic myra characterization
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27302335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenWithABeeThrone/pseuds/QueenWithABeeThrone
Summary: “Hey, look at that one,” Bill says, pointing at a spotted koi fish swimming through the water, ascending to the surface to gulp down pellets.“It’s a pretty nice one,” Mike agrees, just as something crashes loudly against the gong. He straightens up and whips around on his heel, to see the rest of the Losers' Club.“This meeting of the Losers’ Club has officially begun,” says Richie, deadpan.“Hi, Mike,” says Eddie, waving awkwardly.Here's what Richie Tozier and Eddie Kaspbrak just now remembered: twenty-seven years ago, they were the very best of friends, part and parcel of the Losers' Club. Now their old friend Bill is calling all the Losers back to Derry to fulfill a blood oath they can barely recall, and the Lucky Seven must now face an old enemy. It would be easier if said enemy didn't rope in some help of its own. It would be so much easier if Mike can only remember what the Ritual of Chud is. It would be so much easier if the cast and crew of Richie and Eddie's show didn't keep blowing up their phones.But nothing could ever be easy for the Losers, and the only way out is through.But they're all together now. They'll all make it out alive.Right?
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Mike Hanlon/Bill Denbrough
Series: i wanna scream "I LOVE YOU" from the top of my lungs. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893640
Comments: 44
Kudos: 53





	1. Out of the Blue, Into the Black

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Fall Out Boy's "The Kids Aren't Alright". happy Halloween! here's the start of the long-promised sequel to the big bang. as this is supposed to be a sequel, if you haven't read the previous story (come down from your holy mountain), you'll be very lost here.
> 
>  **content warnings:** THE CLOWN and all associated warnings with it. suicide attempt. domestic abuser appears onscreen and uses misogynistic language to refer to his ex. discussion of parental abuse. abusive parent is impersonated by It to lure an ex prone to harassment and manipulation into town. suicidal ideation. I probably missed something but if it's in the movie or the book there is a nonzero chance it appears in this fic too.

_I’m coming apart at the seams  
Pitching myself for leads in other people’s dreams  
Now buzz, buzz, buzz  
Doc, there’s a hole where something was  
Doc, there’s a hole where something was._  
\- “Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes”, Fall Out Boy

_It is years since I’ve been here,  
a small town, no bigger than when I left,  
with diseased elms lining Broad Street,  
and teenagers circling endlessly,  
their cars humming in a pack  
at the Dairy Queen, exhaust  
settling like twilight._  
\- Vanessa Haley, “Home”

_My whole life has been nothing but the eye of some storm I don’t understand._  
\- Stephen King, _It_

The thing is, if Bill had any choice in the matter, he wouldn’t have called them back to Derry at all.

Call him selfish. Call him an idiot self-sacrificing martyr. That’s fine, that’s all fine, but it all boils down to this—if there had been any other option to kill It, any way to go after It by himself without endangering the other Losers, Bill would’ve grabbed that option unhesitatingly. So far as he can tell, they’re all happy out there, and if Bill had any choice in the matter he’d happily leave them alone to their happiness, to their lives, because he doesn’t want them _dead_.

But there’s no other way around it. He _has_ to call them back, because they swore an oath, because together they’re the only ones who might stand a chance against defeating this thing. He has to, so he does, dialing Ben and Bev in New York, Stan in Atlanta, Eddie and Richie’s personal phone numbers (okay, so he’s done some stalking, he’s not _proud_ ), and finally Mike in—well, wherever Mike is. He’s a traveler now, apparently, which is good for him, he’d always wanted to get out there and see the wider world, hadn’t he?

His fingers hover over the numbers for a moment. If he could spare Mike somehow, he’d put the phone down. If he could spare any of them, he would never even dial their numbers. But he can’t.

So, with a heavy heart, he dials Mike’s number, and says when he picks up, “Hey, M-Mike.”

“Uh, hey,” says Mike, sounding a little confused, even—god help him—a little afraid. Bill bites down on the blunt end of his pen, a nervous habit he’d picked up from a college girlfriend that he’s never quite gotten rid of. “Who is this?”

“It’s Bill,” says Bill, his heart cracking the same way it did when all the others had asked who he was. “Bill Denbrough, from D-D-Derry? We used to hang t-t-t-together?”

“Bill,” says Mike, slowly. Then he laughs, surprised, delighted, and Bill’s heart lifts at the sound of it. For a moment, he really, truly believes that they might just be okay. “Bill! God, yeah, Big Bill Denbrough—it’s been too long.”

“Yeah,” says Bill, not trusting his voice to shake and stammer too hard. “Yeah, t-t-twenty years, to be exact.”

“ _Jesus,_ ” says Mike. “Have you been alone this whole time, Bill? I’m so sorry. I think—fuck, I promised to _write_.”

“It’s o-okay,” says Bill, softly. He’s known the cost of leaving ever since Richie moved away, because maybe Richie always wanted to get out of town and leave it in the dust, but he would never have willingly broken Eddie’s heart. Not after promising to write him. “I don’t b-b-buh-blame you, Mikey, and honestly I w-w-wish this was just a social call.”

“Well, what is it, then?” Mike asks. “What do you need?”

Bill lets out a breath, and looks down at the scar across his hand, where a broken shard from a Coke bottle had once cut him open. “It’s back,” he says, simply.

“It?” Mike says. Then, with a horrified note: “Oh.”

“Yeah,” says Bill. “God, I’m sorry, Mikey. I’m so f-f-f- _fucking_ sorry. But you have to come back to Derry. We all p-p-promised.”

Mike exhales on the other end of the line. “Okay,” he says. “You’re lucky, actually—I’m in Harrisburg right now, I can turn around and be in Derry in less than twelve hours. You know a place I can stay in for a little while?”

“Try the D-Derry Townhouse,” Bill says. “And, Mike?”

“Yeah?” Mike says.

“I really m-m-mmmm-missed you all.” Bill brushes his fingertips against a framed picture sitting on his desk: all seven of them in shitty Halloween costumes, grinning at the camera. Richie’s mother had taken that picture, much to Richie’s deep displeasure, because she fussed over his looks while he tried to fend her off.

“I missed you too, Bill,” says Mike, warmly. “See you soon.”

He hangs up. Bill listens to the dial tone for a moment longer, then leans over the legal pad and checks off Mike’s name. At least Mike’s sure to come, but the rest—he won’t blame them if they try to get out of it. More than once Bill’s wanted to turn his back on Derry too, get in his car and just _go_ , leave this town behind because what has it ever done for him, except kill his little brother? What use is remembering to keep the lights on in the lighthouse, if the ships are striking out for better and less blood-soaked shores?

But the picture of the Losers in their Halloween costumes on his desk tells him, _hold on, we’ll be there._ The yellowed picture of himself and Georgie, his great big smile missing a tooth, on the fireplace says, _maybe you can fix this, but you have to hold on a little while longer._ The newspaper clippings and missing posters, tacked up on a corkboard with red string linking them all together, screams, _don’t let there be any more Georgies, any more Adrian Mellons, any more Betty Ripsoms._

For twenty-seven years, Bill’s kept this lighthouse going. Soon, the light will be snuffed out one way or another, but who’ll do it and how, he can’t see yet.

He can only hope for the best.

\--

The first thing Ben does, after he gets the call from Bill, is cancel his lectures. All of them. His classes, too, for the upcoming month, because he’s got a very bad feeling about all of this. Yeah, his department head is going to throw a fit, but Ben’s not exactly worried about Liz Wharton’s wrath at the moment. He’s thinking more about Beverly, and how she’s going to take the call.

Because Bill called her too. Ben knows that, deep in his bones. Bill called _everyone_ —Ben himself, Bev, and the others, whose names Ben is only now remembering: Eddie, Richie, Stan, Mike. The lucky seven.

The second thing Ben does is narrowly avoid dazedly walking off the subway platform and onto the tracks. Not a good way to go, that, although if he’s asked he’d much rather take the train than—than _It_ , whatever it is. There’s something in Derry that’s waiting for them, and whatever it is, it wants them all dead.

Bev’s apartment in the Bronx is in one of the safer neighborhoods, and Ben’s all but memorized the route from the subway station to her place. He could get there on muscle memory, and muscle memory is really the only thing that’s keeping him from getting completely lost now with the memories battering his brain. God, they were _friends_ when they were kids! She signed his yearbook! He made her a mixtape, which Richie made fun of and then later asked for tips about! She kissed him before she left!

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, touching his lips. His cheeks heat at the memory: Beverly leaning down to press a little kiss to his lips, the sweet curve of her mouth when she pulled away from him. Five minutes after she’d walked away, he was still standing there, stunned. It’s the only time he’s ever had that reaction to a simple kiss.

It’s probably never going to happen again, of course. Bev’s probably interested in Kay McCall now, or that guy Robbie from her support group. Or, god, even Bill—she’d kissed him too, and isn’t that just a kick in the heart. But as long as Bev is happy, then Ben will just have to learn to put this torch down and move on.

Well. If they all survive this, anyway.

He walks up the stairs, buzzes the doorbell, and waits. Sure enough: “Hello?” says Marian Hawke, her voice tinny over the intercom.

“Hi, Hawke,” says Ben.

“Well, well!” Hawke says, cheerily. “Handsome Ben Hanscom! Bloody good to see you. I’m going to guess you’re here for Miss Beverly Marsh?”

“Uh, yes,” says Ben, his cheeks burning at Hawke’s nickname. One of her cadre of wild friends had started it first, the shortest one, and now the entire building calls him _Handsome_. Usually he can shrug it off with a laugh, but today it just feels like a mockery. Of course they think he’s handsome. They’ve never seen him at thirteen, fatter than a Christmas ham. “Is she in?”

“Oh, definitely,” says Hawke. “I’ll buzz you in.”

She does, and he pushes his way inside, snapping off a cursory wave to her at the desk. Hawke waves back, and thankfully doesn’t try to start a conversation. He really doesn’t think he can have one at the moment, not without freaking her out. Takes a lot to freak Hawke out, but Ben thinks this just might. Whatever this is.

He takes the steps two at a time, his bag thumping against his leg. It’s only when he’s halfway up the stairs that he remembers the elevator, which works, and curses himself for forgetting. Then again, it could be worse—he always used to climb the stairs to Bev’s place, after her rotten father had been taken away.

Oh, god, _Bev_. She’d never talked a whole lot about her childhood, but one time when they were both drunk she had told him that her father wanted her, and she could barely remember living with him. _Maybe that’s for the best,_ she had said, wanly. Ben patted her shoulder awkwardly and confessed he couldn’t remember much about his childhood either, but he remembered being fat and being bullied for it by nearly _everyone_ , teachers and students alike. They’d curled up close on the couch after that, and when Ben woke up the next day he had drooled on her hair and the weight of her had sent his shoulder to sleep.

And now she remembers, too. He knows this even before he gets to her floor, even before he knocks on her door. She _remembers_.

“Who is it?” Bev calls from behind her door, warily.

“It’s Ben,” he says. “New kid on the block?” He pauses, racking his newly refurbished memory, and tries, “The right stuff?”

He hears the sound of chains unlocked, locks undone, before Bev’s door swings open. “ _Ben_ ,” she breathes, her eyes wet with tears, and launches herself at him in a hug. “Oh, god, _Ben_.”

“Hey, Bev,” says Ben, quietly, wrapping his arms around her and hugging her back.

“You made it,” she whispers into his shoulder. “I thought—”

She pulls away, and looks him in the eye. Then she hugs him again, and Ben rubs his hand over her back, humming softly under his breath, the way his mother used to do when he was young and heartbroken.

Finally, she says, “Should we talk about this?”

Ben sighs. He can’t imagine a worse topic to have a conversation about, really, but they’re going to have to. “Yeah, probably,” he says. “We should have it inside, though. I, uh.” He nods to the other apartments.

“Got it,” says Bev, and pulls him inside.

\--

fuck jj abrams ( **thunderpunch** ) wrote,

**Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier: No-Shows at WonderCon**

Okay so! You guys have probably already heard, but just tonight at WonderCon, Eddie Kaspbrak very abruptly cancelled all of his scheduled appearances at the con just MINUTES before he was supposed to come on as part of a panel on the hottest show right now on Netflix, Night Shift. His Twitter account just states he had to attend to a family emergency, which is understandable!

Less understandable is the fact that Richie Tozier came right along with him. Like, thirty seconds after Eddie cancelled his appearances, so did Tozier—you know, _the head writer_ for the show? His Twitter account just says something came up that needed his attention more, but BuzzFeed and EW and all the usual suspects have been trying to get in contact with him and Eddie to no avail. So what the fuck is up???

(And seriously they are SUPER CLOSE for two best bros.)

\--

**Unknown Number**

_**Today** , 9:42 PM_  
What is going on with Eddie???

who is this?

Miss Sawyer, I just want to know what is happening with my ex-husband!  
I think I have the right to be concerned about his wellness on your show.  
If he starts acting erratically because of the undue stress you’ve put on him, I’ll sue for emotional damages on his behalf.

ahhhhh, you’re the ex.

your ex-husband has made it very clear to me and the rest of the cast and crew that you are not allowed anywhere near him anymore.

if you bother anyone else from cast or crew over this, I will find out, and I will sue you for harassment.

do you understand?

\--

_You’ve reached Richie Tozier. Leave a message after the beep and I’ll be sure to give you some lovin’ when I get back._

_BEEP._

“Rich? It’s Veronica. Eddie’s ex just tried to contact me for Eddie’s details and threatened to sue us for emotional damages on his behalf, so watch out for that. I don’t know what’s going on that made you two act so freaked out, but whatever it is, you know you can talk to me about it, right? Any time. Just—call me, okay?”

_BEEP._

“Richie, it’s Max. What the _hell_?”

_BEEP._

“Hey, writer dad, it’s Francine, you okay? We just heard you and Eddie cancelled basically _everything_ , and, I dunno, we’re just really worried for you two. You guys are okay, right? Nothing bad’s happening, right? Right?”

_BEEP._

\--

Stan’s been up in the bathroom for two minutes when the phone rings again. Patty hops off her chair, picks it up, and says, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Uris?” says a man’s voice. Says _Eddie Kaspbrak’s_ voice, actually, she’d loved his turn as Jiggy in _Shield_. She’d recognize his voice anywhere, though it’s grown rougher with age. “Can I talk to Stan? It’s urgent.”

“Stan’s taking a bath, actually,” says Patty.

“It’s _urgent_ ,” says Kaspbrak, a note of desperation in his voice. Patty frowns at her husband’s phone, wondering: why would Eddie Kaspbrak be desperate to speak to her husband? “Please, Mrs. Uris, I gotta f—I gotta talk to him.”

“Okay, okay,” she says, with a sigh. She can’t exactly turn down a movie star, after all, and anyway, Stan had mentioned he had reconnected with an old friend named Eddie recently. She goes upstairs, and says, “Why do you have to talk to him, anyway?”

“It’s—I honestly have no idea if you’d believe me,” says Kaspbrak. “But, uh, there’s been something of an emergency?” His voice pitches upward, as if he’s not too sure of his own story just yet.

“Fuckin’ tell her!” someone shouts in the background.

“I’m _trying_ ,” Eddie yells back at them, then says, “Sorry, that was my—my friend, Richie. There’s been an emergency, and we figured we’d talk to Stan about it, since he was—uh, close to the person who had it.”

Eddie’s friend Richie, Patty decides, sounds like an asshole. Like one of those boys back in her high school days who couldn’t turn off their mouth, so instead used it to sow chaos and discord in the middle of class. “Can’t you just call him back?” she asks.

“No,” says Eddie. “No, it’s important we talk to him _now_.”

“All right,” says Patty, with a sigh. She knocks on the bathroom door, and says, “Stan, Eddie Kaspbrak’s on the phone for you.”

The first thing she hears is a clatter of metal. The second is Stan softly cursing, _Oh, shit._

“Stan?” Patty calls, worry now cresting over her like a tidal wave. That didn’t sound good. She grabs hold of the doorknob, and tries to yank the door open, only—fuck, it’s locked. But why would Stanley lock the door? He never locks the door against her unless he’s taking a shit, and come to think of it he’s never taken a bath at this early hour before, and now that she thinks about it—

Her heart drops out of her chest.

“Mrs. Uris?” Kaspbrak worriedly says over the phone.

“Stanley?” Patty says. “Stanley? _Stanley!_ ”

“Just—go away, Patty!” Stan calls from inside. “I’m fine, I’m, uh, taking a bath, that’s all!”

“Is that Stan?” Kaspbrak says, his tinny voice now panicked. “What the fuck is going on there? Richie, fuck the flight to Maine, we’re flying to Atlanta—Mrs. Uris, what the hell’s going on?”

“Stanley,” says Patty, trying to stamp down on the terror building in her throat. “Stanley, dear, open the door.”

“Patty,” says Stan, “you need to go. Right now. I can’t—I have to do this.” Stubborn man, stubborn stupid man. What is he doing in there that Patty can’t come inside, that he can’t come take a call, that Patty heard the sound of metal clattering to the tiles? “Please. _Please._ ”

“If you don’t open this door right now to me, your _wife_ , Stanley ben Donald Uris, I swear I will _break it down_ ,” says Patty, her tone brooking no arguments. It’s funny, how the fear’s sharpened her voice to a point like this.

Over the phone, Kaspbrak says, “Mrs. Uris, tell Stan that Richie and I are coming to Atlanta and whatever he’s doing, he should stop it right the fuck now, because if he doesn’t show up we’re all just _fucked_. Tell him…” He falters for a moment.

Richie, in the background, picks it up for him, screaming at the top of his lungs, “Tell him he’s a _giant fucking pussy_ if he chickens out before we get there!”

“Your friend Richie called you a,” Patty starts, then hesitates. “He was _very_ rude,” she decides to say, because it was very rude, after all, and under other circumstances she would tell Richie off about his language and about gendered slurs, but right now? She adds, “I don’t think he was wrong. Stanley, what is going _on_? Why are Eddie Kaspbrak and this Richie coming here?”

“Wait, they’re _coming here?_ ” Stanley squawks.

“Eddie Kaspbrak said so!” Patty says.

“Yeah, we’re on our way to the airport right now!” Kaspbrak’s irate voice shouts from the phone. “Just as soon as Richie can find some fucking Xanax! If you’re not there by the time we get there, Stan, I swear to fucking god I’m going to string you up by your dick, see if I fucking won’t!”

“He says if you’re not here to personally greet them, he’s going to do something unspeakable to your genitals,” says Patty, wincing a little even as she says the much, much tamer version of what Kaspbrak has just threatened to do to her husband.

“He’s going to string me up by my dick, huh,” says Stan, sounding deeply resigned, as though he’s heard this threat a hundred times over already. “Okay. Okay. I’ll hear them out.”

“He says he’ll hear you out,” Patty says into the phone, and she hears Kaspbrak’s relieved sigh in response. “Stanley? Will you open the door now, please?”

Metal clatters back into a plastic container. After a long moment, where Patty’s heart scrabbles into her throat and tries to slowly squeeze it tight, her husband finally opens the door.

The first thing she sees is the blood dripping from the shallow cut at his wrist, smearing over the doorknob. She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as horror sinks its claws into her heart. “What,” she starts, then falters. “What did you _do_?” she asks.

“What?” Kaspbrak asks, and she blinks out of shock. She’d forgotten to turn the phone off.

Stanley hesitates, then lets out a breath. “I think I owe you an explanation, babylove,” he says.

“ _Who?_ ” Kaspbrak says.

“But first,” says Stan, “can you please turn that phone off?”

\--

On any other day, for any other shitty time, Beverly would simply go ahead and break out the booze for herself and Ben. They’d knock their beers together and talk shit about Ben’s coworkers and Bev’s clients and their shitty landlords, and then fall asleep afterwards on the couch, Ben drooling into Bev’s thigh.

But this isn’t any other day, and all Beverly can think of is that she is so fucking glad that Ben made it _here_ , because her nightmares—her _visions_ —have been playing over and over again, a horrible montage of gruesome deaths, starring: the Losers’ Club. The latest reel is of Ben, stepping off the subway platform and onto the tracks, just seconds before the train comes barreling through the tunnel, too late for the engineer to stop it.

But he’s here, alive and unhurt, so instead Bev just curls up against his side on the couch, her fingers pressing over his wrist to feel his pulse thudding under his skin. He’s here. They both are. They’re both alive and whole, at least for now.

Ben says nothing, but simply, gently cards his fingers through her hair. She’d cut it short after divorcing Tom, glared him defiantly down in court and silently dared him to _say something_ about it. He’d never liked it, seeing her with her hair short.

Ben, though. Ben is that rare breed of person who says shit like _I’d think you’re beautiful in anything,_ and really means it. She asks him what she looks like in her most hideous outfit, and he always says, “Well, Bev, I think you pull it off really well,” because she’s pretty sure he _does_ think so. She ought to thank Arlene Hanscom, for raising her boy so well. She ought to thank Arlene Hanscom for a lot of things, come to think of it, not the least of which is the sandwiches she used to make for Bev when her aunt couldn’t throw something together in time for the school bus.

God. Ben. God. _Derry._

“Did you build a clubhouse when we were kids?” Bev asks. “All by yourself?”

“I mean, I had a little help from my mom on the weekends,” Ben admits, “but yeah. Yeah, I built a clubhouse, I remember that. Big enough for seven kids.”

“Seven pubescent hormonal assholes,” Beverly says, and laughs a little at the thought. “God, hey, remember—the hammock?”

“ _God_ , yes,” says Ben, with a resigned sigh as he throws his head back against the couch. “Eddie had this ten-minute rule in place for everyone, but I’m pretty sure he and Richie were the only ones who actually _used_ that hammock after a while.”

“Eddie,” says Bev, slowly. Then: “Oh my fucking god. _Eddie Kaspbrak._ We were best friends with a _movie star_.”

“A movie star who crammed himself into a hammock when Richie wouldn’t give it up,” says Ben. “I think we just decided to let them have it from thereon out.”

Beverly laughs again, even as she feels the tears begin to prick at the corners of her eyes. How could she have forgotten them all? Richie, with his stupid jokes and Voices? Eddie, with how he used to fuss over them and how furiously loud he could get? Stan, so fastidious and meticulous! Mike, who’d let her hold a lamb once after it had given birth! Ben, sitting next to her now, who had been so kind when they were just kids! And Bill. God, _Bill._ Straight-backed Bill with watery eyes, the sunlight making his hair shine almost heroically, saying—saying—

“I can’t remember,” she says, distressed, the memory slipping away too fast for her to grasp. “Not everything, not yet.”

Ben lets out a breath. “Neither can I,” he says, and she can hear the fear underneath his own voice, too, the slight tremble to his calm exterior. “I think we’d have to go back for that.”

Bev laughs again, but this time, it’s a hollow thing. “I don’t know about that,” she says. She fishes around for her packet of cigarettes, then curses, because she doesn’t have them on her, because she doesn’t have fucking pockets, because she was taking a fucking break between posters and book covers and napping when the call came from Derry. “I need a smoke before I can talk about this any more,” she says, standing up.

“Do you want to take this to the balcony, then?” Ben asks.

Beverly nods, and they both get up and get moving, her to her office to get a cigarette and a lighter, Ben to wait for her out on the balcony.

When she gets there, sliding the glass door open, she has to stop for a moment and just watch Ben.

She’s not blind. She knows he’s handsome, and she thinks back in the day she must’ve thought he was an adorable little thing. But out in the fading daylight like this, he looks like—like a statue in the MOMA. Looks like the subject of a painting romanticizing the city life, _Man on Balcony Overlooking the Bronx_ , 2016. Bev wants to pick up a camera and take a picture, rearrange the elements to emphasize his pensive eyes, turn up the contrast to bring out the light that seeps into the line of his shoulders. Bev always wants to pick up a camera and take a picture of Ben, he’s such a good model, and more than that, he’s— _good_ , in some undefinable way. And somehow, he chooses to spend his free time hanging around with Bev.

She doesn’t really understand why, but then again she never did figure out why, from their first meeting in a coffee shop when he’d bought her coffee and noticed her bruises. He had never asked what had happened then, but he’d given her his number and said, _If you ever need a friend to talk to when you’re alone._ She should’ve been suspicious, really, but something about Ben Hanscom then had put her at ease, had simply settled back into her heart like it had always belonged there and she had only been waiting for it to come back.

She watches him for a moment, watches how he drums his fingers against the metal railing. Soft yellow lighting, that’s the ticket. Sepia tones, to play up how old-timey he dresses—she’s always teased him about that, and he’s always blushed something fierce. He’d never dressed up like this when they were kids, she knows now, and she wonders if this was one of the many side effects of his desire to be taken seriously in his field, in his department. He’s always talking about how hard it’s been to garner the respect he needs, both from his students and from fellow teachers.

She says, “Penny for your thoughts?”

Ben startles, almost knocking his elbow into the railing. “ _Fuck_ —sorry,” he says.

Beverly slides a cigarette out of her packet, puts it in her mouth, then lights up. She breathes the smoke in as she steps out onto the balcony, then breathes out, resting her elbows on the railing and watching the city pass by underneath them.

Ben doesn’t break the silence that’s fallen between them as she breathes the smoke back out. She can feel the weight of his eyes, yes, but he looks away too, watching the cars passing below, honking to each other, the people chattering about everything and nothing all at once. Like everything’s still okay. Like the world hasn’t irrevocably changed. Or maybe that’s just the two of them.

She says, “When I—When I got the call, I just remember feeling completely unmoored. Adrift, somehow. Like I’d been thrown overboard and nobody thought to cast a life preserver out for me.” She shivers. “And there’s something under the water, just waiting for me to get tired so it can pull me under.”

Ben nods. “When Bill called me, I felt my heart just pounding right out of my chest.” He thumps his fist over his heart a few times. “I was so fucking terrified,” he says. “I almost—”

_Stepped off a subway platform._

“—stepped off a subway platform,” he finishes, having never heard her stray thought. “Stupid, right? Been in New York over a decade now, and just today I almost did the stupid shit even tourists won’t do.”

Beverly shivers and looks away from him, back down to the streets. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t,” she says, sincerely. “It would be a waste.”

“Yeah,” says Ben. “Especially since we did promise, didn’t we?”

Beverly looks down at her hand. A diagonal scar mars her palm—a scar that hadn’t been there before. When she looks at Ben, he’s turning his hand palm up to show her his own scar, a near-identical twin to hers. Both are old, _years_ old, for all that they appeared barely hours ago.

“We promised we’d come back,” she says, slowly. “Why?”

Ben shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “All Bill said was that _It’s back_ , but I don’t—I don’t even know what _It_ is.” She can hear the capital letter there, somehow, the unconscious importance Ben places on the word, even swallowed by his self-deprecating laugh. “I don’t know why I’m so scared.”

“I’m scared too,” Beverly says. She reaches for his hand, takes it in here, and squeezes tight. “I don’t want to go back. Not really. I’m scared of what I’ll find there, scared it’ll be so much worse than either of us could even imagine. But.”

“But?”

Beverly raises the cigarette to her lips again, breathes the smoke in then out. It blows out in a grey cloud over the street. “I _need_ to go back,” she says, after a moment. “It’s like—I don’t want to go to the hospital, because I know it’s going to hurt, but I _need_ to go to know what the hell is happening to me. You understand?”

Ben nods. “The need’s stronger than the want,” he says. “And—I want to _know_ what’s going on. Why I’m so scared.”

“That too,” says Beverly.

“So,” says Ben, “we’re going?”

She nods, sucking in the smoke of the cigarette and the city, then breathing it back out once more. Her nerves are still frayed, but she knows what she has to do. What they have to do.

“We promised,” she says. “Yeah. Let’s go.” She straightens up, stubbing the cigarette out on the metal railing and letting its remnants drop off the balcony. “Do you need to call a taxi back to your place so you can pack?” she asks.

“Yeah, probably,” says Ben. “Do you want to book the tickets or should I?”

“I’ll book the tickets,” she says, because she needs some level of control over this, over everything spinning out of her hands right now. “We both have to pack.” But she’s reluctant to let Ben out of her sight, because all she can think of is the train, and the sound of crunching bone.

“I can help you pack here,” Ben says, after a moment, “and then you can help me pack at my place. Is—Is that okay with you?” He ducks his head, as if suddenly bashful, and says, “Sorry, I just—this is going to sound kind of terrible.”

“Oh, wow, you’re not actually perfect,” Beverly says, dryly.

Ben laughs, a little. “Okay, okay,” he says. “I’m just—I’m a little scared to let you out of my sight, for some reason.” He runs his teeth over his lower lip and admits, “I told you it was going to sound terrible.”

“It does, but honestly, I’m in the same boat,” says Bev. “I think—I think we shouldn’t split up. Not right now.” Because Ben had a near-miss on his way here, and Beverly doesn’t completely trust herself not to look at the drop from her balcony to the concrete and _wonder_. They need to stick together. They’re stronger together that way. “I can’t tell you why I think so, but we have to stay together until we get to Derry.”

“Strength in numbers,” says Ben, absently. “Yeah. Okay.” He looks back at the inside of her apartment, the defiant colors she painted the walls with. “Can I tell you something?”

“Yeah?”

“I think,” says Ben, “I missed you.”

“Oh,” says Bev, and for a moment she sees not the professor, but the young boy, his eyes wide, his project in disarray. “I missed you too,” she says, and means it.

\--

**Unknown Number**

_**Today** , 2:19 AM_  
Is this Myra Kaspbrak?

Yes??? But you must know it’s Myra Wilkes now.

What with the divorce and all, haha.

Who is this??

This is Sonia Kaspbrak. Eddie’s mother. He’s told you about me, hasn’t he?

Isn’t his mother dead???

If this is some sort of prank, I will be calling the police on you.

Not a prank, Myra dear, not one at all.  
My Eddie-bear’s become very good at lying, it’s those friends he likes to hang around with.  
But he listens to you, doesn’t he?

No, we divorced.

Why would he lie about his mother dying?

He lied to you about the sort of people he loved, didn’t he?

You mean…

A mother knows her son best.  
Come to Derry, and I’ll explain.

Derry? Where is that? He’s never mentioned a Derry before.

There’s a lot of things you don’t know about dear Eddie. There’s a lot of things even he doesn’t know about himself, the poor thing.  
It’s in Maine. It’s a lovely little town. Come here and stay a while, Myra.

\--

**Unknown Number**

_**Today** , 2:19 AM_  
Is this Tom Rogan?

yeah who the fuck is this?

Do you know a Beverly Marsh?

do I KNOW her

little bitch used to be my wife and then she fucking left me

ruined my fucking life

Well.  
I used to be a childhood acquaintance of hers.  
And I think I might have a deal for you, Mr. Rogan. A way to get back at Beverly Marsh for what she did to you.

I’m listening

\--

Eddie turns his phone off when they get on the plane, and he doesn’t turn his phone back on when they finally land in Atlanta. There’s just—too _much_ , right now, too many calls from the cast and crew and the convention organizers, too many calls from the press and from his management team, too many calls _period_ , for Eddie to even think about contacting anyone. And this isn’t even going into the DMs and mentions that he’s sure have inundated his Twitter notifications.

Richie sends off a few texts when they land, his face pale and drawn, his shoulders hunched under his jacket. His hands are shaking, and badly.

It’s when they’re off the plane and walking into the airport proper that Richie says, “Why the fuck didn’t we remember each other when we first met?”

“What?” Eddie asks, squinting at the crowds for a sign of Stan, or Patty, or a taxi. “Gimme your phone, I’ll call Stan again.”

Richie hands his phone over to him, and says, “When we met Stan, we remembered him. But you and me? I only knew what you looked like ‘cause I checked your Wikipedia page, and I didn’t feel any kick in the ol’ memory banks when I saw those big sad brown eyes.” He laughs, sounding somehow both hollow and hysterical at the same time. “I should’ve known it was you from the _start_ ,” he says. “Like, from when I heard your fucking _voice_.”

Eddie looks up to meet Richie’s gaze, sees the devastation in his eyes. “Rich,” he says, softly, and reaches out for his hand.

Richie reaches back, and then, suddenly, drags him forward into a hug. It’s—a shock, to be sure, and what’s more of a shock to Eddie is the tears that spring to his own eyes, the way his own arms wrap around Richie without his even really meaning to raise them.

“I _missed_ you,” Eddie says. “I thought—When you didn’t write me back, I thought you didn’t _want_ me anymore, and I was just—so fucking _angry_ —”

“I’m sorry,” Richie says, sounding choked up, “Eddie, Eds, _Eddie_ , I’m so fucking sorry.” He’s soaking Eddie’s shirt with his tears and Eddie gives not a single shit, because it’s _Richie_. He’s missed him. He’s missed him like he’s been missing a piece of his heart this whole time, and now it’s come back to him, settled back into place where it belongs.

“Wasn’t your fault, wasn’t your fucking fault,” Eddie says. “It was fucking—childhood amnesia bullshit, it wasn’t _your_ fault. I don’t blame you.” Anymore, anyway. “You’re here, that’s what matters. You’re _with me_ , and that’s all I fucking care about.” He pulls away then, and presses their foreheads together, his hand on Richie’s cheek, and for a moment nothing else matters but the two of them. The world narrows down to just him and Richie, together, and Eddie almost leans up to press his lips to his and fuck whoever sees—

Someone coughs, loudly enough to break the spell.

Richie jumps away from Eddie like Eddie’s got a fucking rash.

“You guys,” says Patty Uris, peering at them through her glasses like she’s trying to make sense of them, “are—close.”

“They’ve always been close,” says Stan. “Hi, assholes.”

“Hi, Stan,” says Eddie, a little weakly.

“Stan the _Man_ ,” says Richie, and rushes in a little too fast to wrap Stan up in a hug. “You’re here! Eddie doesn’t have to string you up by your dick, that’s great. Wouldn’t wanna deprive the missus here of your half-a-cock.”

“Half my cock’s bigger than yours, Trashmouth,” says Stan, but his eyes are wet and he’s hugging Richie back. He reaches a hand out, and Eddie takes that as the signal it’s meant to be, going in to squeeze next to Richie and wrap his arms around two of the best friends he’s ever had.

His eyes might be a little moist. Shut up.

Anyway, Stan is trapped now in their little circle of love, so Eddie takes this opportunity to say, “Okay, dipshit, what the _fuck_ happened to you?”

“I grew up,” says Stan, trying to disentangle himself. But it’s too late, because Eddie’s got a hand on his shirt and Richie’s arms are stupidly long and proportional to how goddamn _tall_ he got, so all Stan really manages to achieve is some ineffectual squirming. It is, Eddie thinks, a testament to what he and Richie can do to their friends if they work together. “Patty?” Stan says. “Hon?”

“I think you ought to tell them what happened, love,” says Patty. “And then all of you need to tell me just what the—the _heck_ is going on.”

“Yeah, what the fuck did you do to yourself, Stanley?” Eddie demands. “Why couldn’t you talk to us for so long? Why’d you just lock yourself in the bathroom? What the _fuck_ , man?”

“Can we take this out of the airport?” Stan says, nearly begging. “Please? People are _looking_.”

\--

Stan tells them on the way to the Uris house, with Patty driving and Richie and Eddie crammed into the backseat with their suitcases and bags.

Eddie, predictably, says, “You fuckin’ _what_?”

“Man, if you wanted to pussy out of this,” says Richie, after a moment, “you could’ve just booked a flight and flown to fucking Hawaii. Not, you know. Tried to _open up a couple of arteries_.”

“Beep fucking beep, Richie,” Eddie says.

“Thank you guys so much for your unwavering support,” says Stan. “It’s so important to me that I know I have friends like you.”

“Friends I didn’t know about until now,” Patty points out. “Except for Eddie Kaspbrak! I knew about you. Stan mentioned you. I’ve seen your movies! And _City’s Shield_!”

Richie laughs, at the slightly constipated look on Eddie’s face. Sure, Eddie’s not always the most careful about his public image, but around fans who aren’t doing much more than gushing at him, he’s usually at least somewhat polite. Fans tend to have built up a certain image of an actor in their heads, and Eddie’s fans are no exception. So for Patty, a fan, to have heard the unfiltered, unedited Eddie Kaspbrak—

Richie glances at Stan and Patty. They’re not paying attention to him at the moment, so he feels safe enough to maneuver his hand to rest over Eddie’s knee. “Hey,” he says, quietly.

“Hey,” says Eddie. “How freaked out are you right now?”

“I wanna jump into the nearest fucking lake, that’s how freaked out I am,” Richie confesses, quietly, so nobody else hears but Eddie.

“Me too,” says Eddie. His hand drifts to rest over Richie’s, the weight of it warm and familiar. He squeezes once, then pulls away.

“Everyone’s seen his movies,” Stan’s pointing out. “And his shows. And, unfortunately—”

“If you mention _May Park_ and any nude scenes in it, I will throw you out of this fucking car,” Eddie threatens.

Richie, who’s never seen _May Park_ but has absolutely seen Eddie’s dick multiple times, swallows the joke on his tongue with great difficulty. There’s not a single sex scene on _Night Shift_ , and the only dick in the first season belongs to a bloodsoaked, murderous ghost as played by Richard Madden. It would give them away.

But god, it’s such a good joke.

“It’s—hard to explain, Pats,” Stan’s saying now. “Especially since I’m still missing most of the explanation. But do you remember when we were talking, and I said—”

“—that you felt like your life was the eye of some storm you didn’t understand?” Patty completes for him. Richie, from the backseat, sees the impossible fondness pass over Stan’s face, the tiny smile that tugs at the corners of his lips. It’s hard to believe that just hours ago, Stanley Uris was trying to kill himself.

God. Stan tried to _kill himself_. Richie doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do in this situation: laugh, cry, yell at Stan for trying to squirm out of this stupid blood oath—

“Oh, shit,” he says, out loud, “I think we made a blood oath.”

Silence falls over the inside of the car, as everyone digests this.

And then Eddie says, venomously, “Fucking _shit_ , we did!”

“That explains the scar,” says Stan. “But why? What was so important we swore an oath in _blood_ to come back to Derry?”

“No, I’m sorry, back up, we swore a fucking _blood oath_ ,” says Eddie, “I remember we held hands and everything! While our palms were bleeding! Like some kind of—of—”

“Ritualistic bullshit,” Richie pipes up, feeling a little ill. A lot ill. This goes beyond repressed childhood memories, this is the kind of thing that truly demented episodes of true crime podcasts are made of. For a moment, he finds himself seriously entertaining yanking the door open, even while the car is still in motion, and flinging himself out onto the pavement just to get away from all of this. If he breaks his neck in the process, fine, at least he’ll be _away_. “Guys? Why the fuck did a bunch of pubescent assholes like us cut our palms and then hold hands? Why didn’t we just spit-swear?”

“Spit-swearing wouldn’t have worked the same way,” Stan says, almost dreamily. Then he pauses, and frowns. “Okay. How the hell do I know that?”

“You’re asking us?” Eddie says.

“We don’t know _shit_ ,” says Richie. “Bill called us, and all he said was,” and he drops into his imitation of Bill, “ _It’s b-b-b-buh-back, guys,_ which makes no fucking sense!”

“You know what really doesn’t make sense?” Eddie says. “How _scared_ we all felt. I mean, we were all fucking terrified!” He pokes Richie’s shoulder with a finger, and says, “Richie threw up backstage at a panel, I almost crashed the car on our way back to his place—”

“You _what_ ,” Stanley almost shouts.

“We made it out just fine, obviously,” says Richie, remembering how Eddie had slammed on the brakes hard enough that Richie’s seatbelt chafed hard against his skin, how Eddie had nearly shot right through an intersection in the middle of Anaheim traffic, and never fucking mind the red light. Eddie’s knuckles had gone white, he’d been gripping the steering wheel so tightly.

“Stan, you almost killed yourself out of fear,” says Eddie. “What the fuck has us this fucking scared?”

“I have no idea, but I vote we run in the other direction,” says Richie. “Hawaii’s nice this time of year.”

“Antarctica’s also nice,” Stan says.

“I’m not moving to fucking Antarctica,” says Eddie. “What about the Philippines? It’s a tropical country, so you get lots of sun, and the _beaches_ —”

“I’m pretty sure the beaches there are closed, currently,” says Patty. “There was a whole thing about it.”

“—okay, so no beaches, but there’s a fucking _ocean_ between America and the Philippines,” Eddie amends quickly enough.

“The problem is,” says Richie, “would that be enough? Would a fucking ocean be enough to stave off whatever the fuck is coming for us?”

“You guys swore an oath, right?” Patty asks, slowing the car as they come to a red light. Light glints off her glasses, and she taps her manicured fingers against the wheel, as if thinking something over. “Whatever this is, whatever is happening, it all leads back to this oath, one you swore in blood. To—To do what?”

Goddammit. Goddammit, she had to make sense.

“To come back,” says Eddie, reluctantly.

“Well, no one said anything about staying,” says Patty, with a bright cheer that Richie’s pretty sure she’s not really feeling. But hell, everyone in this car was contemplating either suicide or Antarctica’s sweet, sweet embrace, someone’s gotta bring the mood up. Since Richie’s slacking off, it goes to reason that Patty’s picking up after him. “You can just—drop in, say hi, and then get out of there.”

“That makes sense,” says Eddie. “We don’t—We don’t have to stay. We can just show up, that’s technically fulfilling the blood oath we made, right? Right?”

Richie privately kinda doubts that. There are still memories locked behind a door in his mind that haven’t made it through just yet, but they’re scratching at the wood now. They’re begging to get out. If they go to Derry, that’s as good as flinging the door open and inviting all the bad shit in.

But goddammit, he’d promised Eddie. He’s broken that promise once, and he won’t do it again.

So he shrugs, says, “I guess so,” as noncommittally as possible.

“It can’t hurt just to stop in,” says Stan, optimistic. “We’ll be in and out in no time.”


	2. New Arrivals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **content warnings:** implied terminal illness of parental/guardian figure in dream. allusions to violence against women and domestic abuse. the clown. homophobia (as deployed by the clown). nonsympathetic Myra portrayal. allusion to child death. Henry Bowers is mentioned. Sonia Kaspbrak's manipulation tactics are mentioned.

Mike drives all night and then some of the morning to get to Derry, Maine. He can’t explain why the urgency, why the _need_ to get there as soon as possible, and he’s not even sure he actually wants to be there. Derry, from his research, has never exactly been progressive. Just look at all the violence that explodes in this little town. Just look at the Black Spot.

When he sees the sign welcoming him into town, the letters a sunny, bold yellow, a chill goes down his spine. And—is it just him, or is there a red balloon tied to the very top of the sign? Has to be tied. It’s just floating there, instead of flying away, borne up into the sky by the summer winds.

Mike pulls over as soon as he’s sure he’s inside the town proper, over a bridge with a railing that’s littered with the initials of lovers, and steps out of his car. Below him, the Kenduskeag River is burbling away, and Mike peeks down at it, half-wondering if he’ll be able to see clear to the bottom, the way he used to.

That, of course, is when a yellow raincoat floats right past him.

Mike startles back, blinks at the railing in shock. When he risks another look, the raincoat is gone. Must’ve been carried down the river by the current, he figures, uneasily.

But his heart is pounding, and he swears he can hear a laugh, somewhere in the distance.

He gets back in the car, and starts driving again. He finds the townhouse in just about no time, reserves a room right there in the parking lot, and then walks right on in with his bags. The lady at the counter smiles at him with the professional customer-service smile that Mike’s learned to recognize over his years of travel, and she hands his key over with the usual encouragement to have a good time. Mike smiles back, rattled, and scurries upstairs.

He falls into bed, closes his eyes, and sleeps.

When he next opens them, he’s sixteen again, down to his skivvies, splashing his feet through the quarry water. There are four other people with him, talking about crushes and teachers and summer plans, but Mike’s just kicking his feet through the water, liking the feeling of it.

A boy sits next to him, stick-thin and somehow tall. When the sunlight catches on the boy’s hair, Mike’s breath snags on a hook in his throat.

“Hi,” says Mike, a little breathless.

“Hey,” says the boy, mouth turning upward in a small smile as he sits next to Mike. Beyond them, their friends are teasing each other again, gently ragging on one’s strident insistence that _I saw a turtle in there! Yes, really!_ “What’s th-th-there in F-F-Fuh-Florida that you want to move there one d-d-day?”

“Beaches,” says Mike. “I’ve lived here pretty much forever, I kind of want to see the sky for once.” He ducks his head, scratches the back of his neck, and says, “I guess it’s not just Florida, honestly. I want to go—somewhere. Anywhere.”

“Anywhere but D-D-Derry,” says the boy.

Mike sighs, kicking idly at the water. “If it wasn’t for the farm, my grandfather would’ve gone already,” he says. “This town—there’s not a lot of good memories here for him, and he’s wanted to leave for a while now.” He huffs out a breath, and confesses, “I think—he’s sick. Getting sicker all the time. The sooner he gets out of town, the better it’ll be for him, but you know him, you know how stubborn he can get.”

“M-M-Maybe you can talk him into g-g-guh-going somewhere,” says the boy, encouragingly. “At least j-j-j-just so he can get l-luh-looked at. It wouldn’t h-h-h-hurt, getting a ch-ch-che-check-up in Bangor.”

Mike drums his fingers along his thigh, says, “Can I—Can I tell you something secret?”

The boy nods, mimes locking up his lips and throwing away the key.

“Sometimes I think about getting him a check-up and I _want_ the doctors to find something,” Mike confesses, shamefully. “Nothing _serious_. Nothing that’ll get him killed if they catch it in time. But something that’s just serious enough that we have to go somewhere with a better hospital.” He looks down at his hands, clasping them together and rubbing his thumb over a knuckle. “Somewhere that’s not Derry. And then I feel like shit, because what kind of person wishes that? And what kind of person would just—leave the rest of you alone?”

“I don’t b-b-buh-blame you for wanting to go, Mikey,” says the boy, and Mike lets go of the breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. “Not even knowing—well.” He shrugs, tiredly, and Mike sees the grief and sorrow and _loss_ written clear across his face, aging his eyes till he looks sixty and not sixteen. This boy he loves has seen too much heartbreak, and Mike doesn’t know if he can bring himself to add more to the pile. “You kn-know.”

“Know what?” Mike asks.

The boy takes hold of his hand. “What’s c-c-c-coming,” he says, and Mike blinks, suddenly finding himself waist-deep in water, the boy holding his hands. “You know what’s coming. Deep down you’ve always known.”

“What?” Mike says, helplessly, his voice a double-layered thing—himself at thirteen, himself at forty. “What have I always known?”

“The curse of Derry,” says the boy. “And how to fight it. You’ve just buried it, that’s all, deep beneath, but you can dig it up. You have to dig it up.” His hands frame Mike’s face. “You have it in your notes, in your files, in your _head_ , but you have to dig it back up soon, and fast, or else.”

“Or else what?” Mike asks, desperately, trying to cling to the boy’s wrists, trying to keep him there. “Please, what can’t I remember that I have to dig back up? _Help me_ —”

“ _Chud_ ,” says the boy, just as Mike feels something curl around his leg and _yank_ downwards—

—and Mike wakes with a scream trapped in his throat.

\--

**Unknown Number**

_**Today** , 7:18 AM_

Okay, I’m here!

Where are you?

I’m back in Derry, but I sent an old friend of mine to come fetch you, Myra.  
See the taxicab with a red balloon tied to the side mirror? That would be old Bobby Gray.  
He’s been waiting quite a while for you.

Well, I’m SORRY if the plane went through a spot of turbulence before we got here.

I swear I thought we were going to crash at some point! This is why I never take planes anymore.

Too good a chance they’ll crash.

Don’t you worry about the plane anymore, Myra my dearie.  
Just worry about Eddie.  
Do you know who he’s traveling with?

No? Should I?

Aren’t you his wife?

I was! But he never talks to me anymore.

I wish he’d talk to me like the good old days. He was much nicer then, and so much kinder than he is now.

It’s those people on that show of his. They’re getting into his head.

One of those people happens to be traveling with him right now. The worst of them, in fact.  
A dirty, trashy little deviant.  
Come to Derry in a few hours, and let’s see if we can’t talk some sense into our poor dear.

\--

_This is Beverly Marsh speaking. Leave a message after the beep._

_BEEP._

“Bev? Beverly, it’s—oh, god, _fuck_ , it hurts—it’s Kay. The bastard swung by. Wanted, _gah_ , wanted to know where you were going. I, oh, _Jesus_ , I told him I didn’t know shit-all about where you went, just that it was with someone who wasn’t me. I wasn’t—I’m sorry, Bev, I swear, I was gonna keep my fuckin’ mouth shut about who, but— _fuck, ow_ —the bastard broke my fucking _hand_. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry—”

_BEEP._

“Bev? It’s Rosa Diaz. I’m taking Kay to the hospital, she’ll be okay, and I took her statement already. We’re looking for Rogan right now, but there’s a possibility that he might’ve booked it out of the city. In which case, be _careful_.”

_BEEP._

\--

In the coming days, Eddie will be more than a little relieved that Myra (and Tom the bastard) had come to Maine a few hours too early to catch any of them. If they’d met their exes in the airport, he’s pretty sure it would’ve ended in at least one or two people solidly in jail, and at least one of those people would be either Richie or Eddie himself. And Veronica would’ve killed them both then.

But right now, Eddie isn’t thinking about Myra, or Tom, or even worrying about a future he doesn’t know is coming. Right now, he’s bored as shit, reading an e-book about old Hollywood scandals to pass the time while Richie and Stan argue over if they should buy empanadas for a quick meal on the road to Derry, or if they should get something else entirely. Frankly, Eddie doesn’t care either way, but if they want a tiebreaker he’ll side with Richie and get a free empanada out of it.

He reaches the end of the section on Wallace Reid, that poor old bastard, and sighs. Props to the Hollywood PR machine, he supposes darkly, for being able to spin even something as fucked-up as addiction into some kind of heroic narrative for an erstwhile golden boy like Reid. Eddie tabs out of the book and pulls up another one, this time a guide on the craft of writing as written by some other horror writer from Maine.

He looks up, and catches sight of red hair in the crowd.

“ _Beverly?_ ” he calls, before he can think better of it.

The head whips around, and sure enough, it’s Beverly Marsh right there. Beverly _fuckin’_ Marsh.

“Eddie!” she shouts, a big, bright grin spreading across her face, and before Eddie knows it they’re running at each other in an _airport_ , arms outstretched for the moment of collision.

She nearly knocks him over with her body weight, that’s how hard she slams into him. Lucky for her that he’s an actor and hits the gym a lot, so he manages to stand his ground and wrap his arms around her, half-laughing, half-sobbing.

“You made it,” she says, voice full of wonder.

“Of course,” says Eddie. “We promised.” He lets go of her then, looks her up and down. “Holy shit,” he says. “How the fuck did we not know each other in New York? I fucking _gave you my number_.”

“I know!” Beverly laughs. “I even saw all your movies! You’d think, at some point, I would’ve figured out I’d heard your name before all that.”

“God, not all my movies, please,” says Eddie.

“Not _all_ your movies,” Beverly parrots back, but there’s a mischievous twinkle in her eye that says, yes, she _has_ seen all his movies. Even the ones he regrets being in. Yes, Eddie, even the one with the stripper that’s got backbreakingly gigantic tits. “You know, it’s weird, but I always thought you were going to be a doctor.”

“Hah, yeah,” says Eddie. “I think the meltdown I had in biology class when we had to dissect a frog put an end to that shit fast.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, says, “Did you come here alone, or—”

“Ben’s with me,” says Bev. She turns and points at a man in a tweed jacket standing at the baggage carousel, the same man from the bagel shop where Eddie had first run into Bev back in New York. For a moment Eddie doesn’t recognize him beyond that.

Then the guy grabs two duffel bags, turns, and Eddie says, floored, “Holy fucking shit, Ben _Hanscom_?” He tilts his head to the side, overlaying the small, rather fat boy he had known with this—fucking Greek marble statue given flesh. Jesus. Even under the tweed he’s unbelievably handsome. “Where’d you two find each other?”

“In a coffee shop,” says Bev, waving Ben over. Ben walks over, and oh, wow, he’s gotten tall since Eddie last saw him. “You didn’t come here alone, did you?”

As if on cue, Richie emerges from the shop, saying, “Hey, Eddie, I bought you an empanada, d’you want a Pepsi to go with it or—holy _fuck_.”

“What is it now?” Stan says, coming out just behind Richie. Then he freezes in place, eyes growing wide. “Beverly? _Ben?_ ”

“Hey, Rich,” says Eddie, “so remember when I went to get you bagels, back in New York, when I was on SNL?”

“Those really good bagels?” Richie asks, eyes flicking between Ben and Bev.

“Yeah, well, guess who I ran into,” says Eddie, and pushes Beverly in front of him like a shield. “And I didn’t even know until right now!”

“Beverly fucking Marsh,” says Richie, “oh my _god_ —”

“Richie fucking Tozier!” Beverly says, and launches herself at him too with a laugh.

“Well, he clearly hasn’t changed,” says Ben, his tone fond as he hoists the bag up to his shoulder. “Hey, Stan. Hey, Eddie. I marathoned _Night Shift_ when it dropped, by the way, I thought it was pretty good.”

Oh, right. _Night Shift_. The show that Eddie’s a main character on. The show he and Richie ran out on for Derry. Eddie had—fuck, in this entire mess, he’d actually forgotten that it had dropped on Netflix for everyone to watch. Of course Ben’s seen it, of course he thinks it’s good, because it _is_ good, they worked too damn hard for the show to be anything other than good at the very least. It’s just that right now, it’s barely even a blip in his memory, so it takes him a second to register that oh, yeah. Ben means his and Richie’s show.

“Vanity Fair loves it,” Bev says, from where Richie is trying to smother her in a hug.

“Let fucking go of her, asshole,” says Eddie, stepping over to gently smack Richie’s shoulder. “I want a crack at Bev too.”

“C’mon in, then,” says Richie, lifting an arm in a clear invitation. “Stan and Ben too,” he adds.

\--

 **joey / night shift spoilers!!** _@tophernancys_  
uh guys I think I just saw Eddie Kaspbrak in this Maine airport??? as the filling in a group hug of hot guys???  
[IMAGE: Eddie Kaspbrak and Richie Tozier in a group hug with three other people.]

\--

Bill, it turns out, has an actual day job, because not everyone can get their books to be so popular that they can retire in comfort and write all the time at the age of like, thirty-one or something, because they’re so fucking rich off all the royalties and the movie franchise. Sometimes, they have to put their degree in Literature to good use and become—

“—a teacher?” Mike asks, surprised.

He’d texted Bill after he’d woken up in the townhouse, letting him know that he’d arrived in Derry. Bill had called him immediately and asked if he wanted to come meet him on the steps of Derry’s high school, since Bill actually had a couple summer workshops and a remedial English class to teach today. “Could use the c-company,” he had said.

Mike had agreed. Now here they are, eating sandwiches on the steps of the old high school, and it’s so much like the old days that Mike half-expects to see Richie and Eddie come round the corner on their bikes, bickering as always.

God, Richie and Eddie. He _knew_ them, he can hardly believe it.

“Yeah, I’m the English teacher for the tenth grade,” says Bill, pulling Mike back into reality. His speech is a little slower than it usually is, the sign of a mostly-reformed stutterer, and sometimes Mike hears a slight lisp under his words on the S sounds, where Bill used to stammer. “Usually, anyway. Right now I’m helping a few people get their grades up in time so they can graduate with their peers next year, and teaching teenagers the fine craft of writing.”

“How’s the latter working out for you?” Mike asks.

“If I have to read another fucking story told entirely through texts I’m going to fucking explode,” says Bill, pleasantly, and Mike snorts out a laugh. “People don’t text when they’re next to each other. They _talk_. It’s all just gimmicky writing and nothing else.”

“Think of it like a found footage horror movie,” says Mike.

“Yeah, I know that’s the sort of thing they’re going for, but it’s not w-w-wuh- _working_ ,” says Bill, frustration bleeding into his voice enough to shake it. “I ought to devote a whole lesson to gimmicks. What do you think?”

“It can’t hurt,” says Mike, drumming his fingers on his knee. “So what happened? How did you end up as a teacher in the first place?”

Bill shrugs, the pen in his hand twirling around his fingers. “There’s not much else to do for a Literature major, in Derry,” he says, with a shrug. “I could’ve gone into the library, I guess, but I wanted to do something more proactive. So teacher it was.” The corners of his mouth pull up in a wry smile, and Mike finds himself studying the curve of Bill’s lips, the indent on his top lip, before pulling his eyes back up to meet Bill’s gaze. “What about you? I hear you’re a true crime writer now. How did that happen?”

“I started out as a freelance journalist, actually,” says Mike. “Then I heard about James Cogan’s disappearance, and I figured it was worth looking into.”

“The Colorado Kid?” Bill asks.

Mike nods. “That’s what they called him,” he says, “because when they found his body off the coast of Maine, thousands of miles away from where he was last seen alive, they also found an out-of-state cigarette tax stamp on him from Colorado. So of course I got curious about _how_ he got there, and that spiraled a little more than I thought it would.”

“Into a whole book,” says Bill.

“I really thought it was just going to be a couple of articles at most,” says Mike, a little abashed, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand. “But when I started digging deeper, I found I couldn’t stop. Even if I couldn’t solve the mystery, I wanted to understand as much of it as I could.” He shrugs. “So I wrote a book.”

“It was a damn good book,” says Bill, and something in Mike’s chest grows warm.

“Thanks,” he says. “I read a few of your books too. They’re terrifying, I don’t think I managed to sleep for a couple of days after reading them.”

Bill grins. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says.

“It was meant as one,” says Mike. He leans back on his palms, the small of his back pressing into the step behind him. “You really never left Derry?” he asks, quietly.

“I couldn’t,” says Bill. “I’ve thought about it plenty over the years, believe me, but every time I even think about stepping over that line…” He shivers, then pulls his knee up to his chest, looking down at the scar on his hand. His voice shakes, when he says, “I d-don’t want to forget Juh-juh-Georgie. I _can’t_.”

Georgie. God, _Georgie_ , little George Denbrough, who Mike had never met but had seen from afar a couple of times before the boy’s death. He remembers the sight of little Georgie, playing in puddles with his older brother right behind him, splashing up mud and laughing delightedly, yellow raincoat fluttering in the blowing winds.

He remembers, too, the photograph of Georgie pinned to his corkboard, his gap-toothed grin, the black block letters under his picture spelling MISSING.

“God, Bill,” says Mike, the horror finally striking home, “I’m—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” says Bill, wiping at his eyes. “God, Mikey, don’t be s-ssss-sorry. It’s been twenty-seven years, and I’ve done what I could, to keep his memory alive.” He smiles, then, but it doesn’t quite reach his wounded eyes. “I wrote him down,” he says, softly. “It’s the next best thing.”

Mike’s about to ask what he means when he remembers: the dedication pages in William Denbrough’s novels. Nothing about his parents have ever made it there, but the Losers, without fail, always do. And Georgie, too. His name has stood in print longer than the boy himself stood on the earth, splashing through mud puddles and laughing with pure, childish delight.

Then he says, “The Losers—you’ve been dedicating your books to us?”

Bill nods. “Of course,” he says, like he’s surprised that Mike could fathom anyone else he could dedicate his books to. “You remember that now?”

Mike nods. “A little bit,” he says. “More things are coming back, the longer I stay here, but—not everything.” He runs his teeth over his lower lip, then asks, “What’s going on, Bill? Why does everyone who leaves this town forget about it? Why are there things that I can’t remember, still?”

“Something in this town won’t let you remember, if you leave,” says Bill. “As for the rest—I can’t tell you, right now. Not without all the others.”

“You think they’re all coming?” Mike asks. “Richie wasn’t exactly very enthusiastic about learning anything about his own past.”

“Yeah, he wouldn’t be,” says Bill, “but I remember how curious we all were. Like—remember, when Richie and Eddie watched that _Unsolved Mysteries_ episode about the plane, what was its name—”

“ _L’Oiseau Blanc_ ,” Mike says, snapping his fingers. “I remember that. Richie was so sure the plane had gone down in the—the—”

“The Barrens,” Bill supplies.

Memories spark to life, of green forests and a babbling river, of the weight of a rock in his hands before he lets it fly. “The _Barrens_ , yes,” says Mike, hardly able to believe it. “We fought for that place!” They really _had_ fought, had thrown and been hit with rocks with enough force to draw blood, and Mike remembers now that—that _click_ of rightness, standing beside the others with a rock in hand. Like he had only just been waiting for these six people to come into his life.

“We did,” says Bill. “What else do you remember?”

Mike shakes his head. “Not a whole lot else,” he says, apologetically. “I don’t even remember who we were fighting.”

“Eh, you don’t have to worry about him,” says Bill, with a shrug. “He’s been stuck in Juniper Hill since 1989. They’re never gonna let him out of there.”

\--

**Norah Jane Whitmer**   
_Today at 1:28 PM_

PSA!!!!!

Just learned from a friend in the Derry Police Department that a serial child killer is on the loose. If you see a blond man with a mullet, dressed in a green, sleeveless shirt with jeans and carrying a knife, run the hell away in the other direction! His name is Henry Bowers and YES, he’s the psycho who killed all those kids and his own dad back in ‘89, he escaped just today from Juniper Hill Asylum. STAY INSIDE!!!

 _18 comments_ | _27 shares_

 **Carol Montgomery** Seriously? How bored are you today, Norah? “Friend in the Derry Police Department” my ass, we know you’re just making this shit up for attention.

\--

They end up cramming together in a single rental car, and because the universe has a speck of mercy still inside it somewhere, Stan manages to claim shotgun before anyone else can. Even better, Eddie is driving, and Eddie is the most conscientious driver any of them know. Well, most of the time, anyway, but Stan figures he can be forgiven for a couple of lapses in the wake of Bill’s call.

Richie, of course, is sitting right behind Eddie, but maybe their luck will hold and Richie won’t cause their deaths in a car crash by winding Eddie up too far. Probably.

“I saw that bird documentary you did, the one on Netflix,” Beverly’s saying now, touching Stan’s shoulder. She’s grinning when he looks at her, like she can hardly believe how lucky he got, to have his voice on a Netflix documentary, of all things. “It was pretty good! I usually put documentaries on if I want to take a nap, but your narration was just so engaging that I just _had_ to stay awake.”

“Thanks,” says Stan. “You’re the first person to say that—my wife uses them to put herself to sleep.”

“Wait, you got married?” Ben cuts in. “ _When?_ ”

“Fifteen years this October,” says Stan. _If we make it out of this alive._

Eddie makes a strange, strangled noise. Richie, behind him, says, “Oh, don’t mind Eddie. We’re from LA. Marriages last about, uh, three years there on average, he’s never seen someone with a fifteen-year marriage.” He puts a hand over his heart, and says, “So Patty and Stan are a fucking _unicorn_ to us.”

“Shut the fuck up, Rich,” Eddie huffs. “Congrats, Stan. I mean it. I’m glad you found her.”

“Yeah, me too,” says Stan.

“Rich,” says Bev, “speaking of marriage, did you ever get married?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Richie.

“When?” Ben asks, his eyes wide.

Eddie groans, says, “Don’t you say it, don’t you fucking say it, or you can _walk_ to Derry—”

“Oh, four years now,” says Richie, “and let me tell you, Eddie’s mom has been an unparalleled delight for all those four years—”

“She’s been dead longer than that!” Eddie shouts, and Stan reaches out for the radio and turns the volume up to drown out Eddie and Richie’s ensuing argument. He’d much rather listen to whatever the fuck kind of guitar-driven bullshit Ed Sheeran is putting out into the world than the Tozier-Kaspbrak Variety Hour.

“Oh,” says Richie, “that explains why she was so dry last night.”

“Beep fucking _beep_ , Richie!” Ben says, covering his face with his hands.

“He’s not married,” says Eddie, quickly. A little too quickly, Stan realizes. Eddie’s gaze darts furtively to Richie in the rear view mirror, who gives a slight shake of his head. “We’re all just too busy to date these days, I guess.”

“Making a hit show’s hard work, don’tcha know,” Richie drawls. But something in the way that he and Eddie look at each other—it’s _familiar_ , yes, an echo of the way they used to orbit around each other when they were kids, but there’s something else behind it now. Something almost heated.

A memory itches at the back of his mind. Stan ignores it.

“I knew it,” says Bev. “There’s no _way_ Richie’s tied down to one woman.”

“She gets me!” Richie says, but there’s a forced quality to his grin now, and Eddie’s looking straight ahead at the road. “Yeah, why would I deprive half the American population of my magnum dong?”

“I didn’t miss this at all,” says Ben.

“Really stretching the definition of magnum there,” Stan says.

“That’s not the only thing I’m able to stretch,” says Richie with an eyebrow waggle, and Stan pretends to gag. God, he really has missed him, and the rest of the Losers, even when he couldn’t quite remember them so well.

“You know, Ben,” says Eddie, voice rising in volume, “I always thought you’d be an architect or an engineer, for some reason? I remember you used to be pretty good at building shit.”

“Yeah, I did think about becoming an architect,” says Ben. “But the history class I meant to take for an easy A was full up by the time we were signing up, so I took a different one, and that class really hooked me on history.” He shrugs, and says, “Architectural history is actually really interesting, you guys. If you take a look at one of the older buildings in New York City _alone_ , there’s a lot of stories that could be told from when and how that building was built—”

Richie lets out a loud, fake snore.

“God _damn_ it, Richie—” Eddie starts.

Richie makes a noise that sounds like he’s coming out of a deep, restful sleep, then looks at Ben, then at Eddie. “Sorry, what was that?” he says. “I heard _architectural history_ and it was so boring my brain drifted off immediately.”

“Drop him,” Stan tells Eddie. “He can walk.”

“Hey!”

Bev snorts out a laugh. “I really did miss you all,” she says, warmly. “Even this.”

“Happy to provide,” says Richie.

“You’re just inflating his ego,” says Eddie. “It’s already big enough, look, his forehead’s gotten too damn huge.”

“You _like_ my fivehead,” Richie argues, “you told me one time I looked like a really h—a really _brainy_ college professor.” His cheeks tinge red, which is strange, but even stranger is how he looks away from Eddie, as if he’s trying to achieve some kind of plausible deniability. Stan frowns at him, trying to parse it, because this is _off_ , somehow. What else had Richie been about to say that he bit off? What’s charging the air between him and Eddie?

Eddie doesn’t say anything else, which is definitely out of the ordinary for the both of them. His eyes are fixed on the road ahead of them, but the tips of his ears have turned into a faint reddish color.

It’s almost like—

“Hey,” says Ben, suddenly, his voice cutting into Stan’s thoughts, “Eddie, did you ever get that postcard I sent you? After you moved away?”

“What postcard?” Eddie asks, before realization dawns on his expression. “Oh, shit! Yeah, months ago. I think my mom hid it from me when she realized who it was from.” He pauses, then his lips press into a thin line. “She hid a ton of shit from me,” he says. “God, I can’t believe her.”

Stan reaches his hand out for Eddie’s, and squeezes it tight. He remembers Sonia Kaspbrak too well, even as fuzzy as his memory is, remembers her narrowed eyes as she watched him push down the kickstand to accompany Richie to _her_ doorstep. She thought him too _Jewish_ to hang out with her baby boy, just as she thought Bev too dirty, Ben too fat, Mike too black, Bill too grief-stricken, and Richie—well, too _Richie_ , but Eddie had flatly refused to let her stop him from going out for them once. Stan’s pretty sure that he’d put his foot down about it again.

Richie says nothing, but his hand reaches for Eddie’s shoulder and squeezes tight, too. After a moment, so does Bev.

Ben, who’s too far, says, “Well, you’re a big-time actor now, so that’s a pretty good way to spit in her eye.” He adds, after a moment, “I’m glad you managed to get my postcard after all, though! Even if it was kinda late.”

“You guys do know that I have to drive, right?” Eddie says after a moment, but his voice is distinctively choked up.

“Just let us have this fucking sappy-ass moment,” says Richie, and for once, Stan can’t help but agree.


End file.
